


Cold

by bluebell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Fluff, Hypothermia, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2012-11-20
Packaged: 2017-11-19 03:05:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebell/pseuds/bluebell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're cold," Sherlock said, a hint of a frown on his face.</p><p>"It's a good job you're a genius," John bit out as his teeth continued to chatter. "I'd never figure these things out on my own."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to zinelady for looking over this for me and giving great advice when I was stuck, you really helped me finish this story. Also thanks to fennishjournal for the most awesome beta job, this would have been a much worse fic without your help. I didn't listen to everything they said, so any remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> This story started life as comment fic when ages ago, on my journal, I asked for prompts. mandatorily requested “Sherlock/John, cold.”
> 
> This has now been translated into Chinese and is available [here](http://www.mtslash.com/viewthread.php?tid=77103).

John squelched his way up the stairs, his socks and shoes as soaked as the rest of him. His jeans were plastered to his legs, the denim clammy and uncomfortable, and his jumper was sodden. He had cursed himself more than once on the walk home for not taking a little longer to look for his coat and umbrella when he hadn’t been able to find them this morning and now water was dripping from his hair and down his neck. John stumbled a little as he walked and fumbled with the door handle, his frozen hands refusing to cooperate. He was shivering uncontrollably, so cold his teeth were actually chattering. He wouldn’t have thought it was possible for so much rain to fall in so short a period of time if he hadn’t seen it for himself, and the bitter winter weather meant that it was freezing cold, too.

John walked into the living room and slammed the door behind himself, walking over to the fire to try and get warm as he muttered swear words under his breath. At least he was out of the freezing rain now, even if he was a human icicle.

"You're dripping on the floor."

John turned around to see Sherlock sitting in his usual spot at the kitchen table and glared. Before he could think of something suitably scathing to say, another full body shiver ran through him and he folded his arms across his chest in a futile attempt to warm himself a little.

"I could have told you that it was the wrong day for getting off the bus two stops early,” Sherlock said, one eyebrow raised.

“C-could you really,” John said, his chattering teeth rather diluting the venom he had tried to inject into the words. What he really wanted was to strip off his wet and uncomfortable clothes and warm himself in front of the fire for a while, but he couldn’t very well do that with Sherlock in the room. He shivered again, shoving his hands under his armpits in an attempt to warm them a little. He wasn’t sure he'd be able to handle his shoelaces and the buttons on his jeans until they warmed a little, anyway.

“You're cold," Sherlock said, a hint of a frown on his face.

"It's a good job you're a genius," John bit out as his teeth continued to chatter. "I'd never figure these things out on my own."

At those words Sherlock got up and swept dramatically from the room. John rolled his eyes and turned back to the fire, holding his hands out to the flames. After a while he heard Sherlock come back into the room, but chose to ignore him, instead rubbing his hands together.

"John."

John turned to see Sherlock standing behind him, holding two large bath towels, a large blanket, and some socks.

"Where did you get clean towels from?" John asked, too surprised at Sherlock actually being thoughtful for once to respond with anything sensible. "I thought they were all dirty."

"I keep some towels in my room," Sherlock said, putting one towel and the robe down on an armchair. He stepped towards John and started to rub his hair with the towel, in a surprisingly gentle way.

“If you’d been out much longer you’d have mild hypothermia,” Sherlock said. He didn’t sound particularly worried about this possibility but the fact that he was _drying John’s hair_ spoke volumes. John was shocked into silence and found himself just standing there as Sherlock rubbed his hair dry, his hands firmly massaging John's scalp through the towel.

“You already have some of the symptoms. Shivering, vasoconstriction, and tachypnea, although . . .”

John began to lean towards Sherlock unconsciously, his eyes closing of their own accord, and listened in silence as Sherlock talked about hypothermia. Once Sherlock started lecturing about something he rarely needed a reply and John was finding it hard to concentrate on anything other than the strong hands on his scalp. If Sherlock found his frozen state interesting enough to dry John’s hair for him, who was John to argue? Having his hair dried was something he had always liked on the rare occasions when someone did it for him. Soon, it was only John’s uncontrollable shivering that stopped him from drifting off completely.

It always took a while for him to learn to relax around someone new, but once he did, John had a tendency drift off when he focused on the pleasure of being touched. One of his previous girlfriends had said that he was so tightly controlled all the time that, when he finally did relax and let go, he didn’t know when to stop, all his boundaries coming down at once. John hadn’t been sure if that was a compliment or not. He wasn’t a touchy-feely person by any means, and unlike Sherlock he always respected other people’s personal space. He couldn’t remember the number of times Sherlock had leaned over his shoulder to read his laptop or his newspaper, or casually asked John to get something out of his pocket. The first time it had happened John had felt very uncomfortable but that sort of closeness was something he had gotten used to over time.

The sound of a car backfiring outside caused John to jump slightly and straighten up, stopping his unintentional lean towards Sherlock and those hands of his. Sherlock had stopped talking some time ago. John wasn’t sure how long he had stood there, enjoying himself far too much.

"I should get out of these wet things," John said, feeling oddly reluctant to leave.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. As he said this, Sherlock started to pull John's sodden jumper up and over his head. The smell of wet wool filled John's nose and he struggled for a moment as the tight wet neck hole caught over his head, the jumper plastered over his face.

"Hey! I'm not entirely helpless, you know," John protested, but he stayed still nonetheless, as Sherlock's long fingers gently guided the caught jumper over his head.

"I know you're not helpless," Sherlock said, dropping the sopping wet thing on the floor. "But you need to get your core body temperature up and get rid of these wet clothes.” Sherlock looked at John with a hint of a smile on his face. “I wouldn't want you to catch a cold."

"You can't catch cold from being cold," John said pointlessly, knowing that Sherlock already knew this.

Sherlock didn't answer, instead kneeling down and turning his attention to John’s shoes and socks. John was so grateful to get rid of the horrible squelching feeling of wet socks that he didn’t bother to argue as Sherlock continued to undress him.

Then Sherlock turned his attention to the fly of John’s jeans and John swallowed hard and looked down at Sherlock’s dark curls. Sherlock was concentrating on coaxing the buttons free from the wet denim and part of John protested that this was getting a bit too familiar now, but somehow the words wouldn't come.

Sherlock finished with his fly and began peeling John free of the jeans. The wet cloth stuck to him uncomfortably and John couldn’t help but be glad to get rid of the horrible clammy feeling. His boxers were only damp and John sent a silent prayer of thanks when Sherlock left them alone.

Sherlock stood up again and John was suddenly hyper-aware of his own body. Of the way his shirt was plastered wetly to his chest. Of how hard and tight his nipples were. Of the fact that he was standing in front of his flatmate in only his shirt and boxer shorts.

Sherlock moved to take off John's shirt, his hands reaching for the top buttons. John knew he should stop this right now, he should step back, make a joke and go take a long hot shower. But he didn't do any of that. He just stood there dumbly as Sherlock removed his shirt for him, his hands moving slowly as the buttons got stuck in the buttonholes of the damp cotton. John watched Sherlock's face, watched those piercing eyes as they moved from one set of buttons to the next, until Sherlock had exposed him from his goose-pimpled chest - his nipples still hard and tight - to his soft pale belly. John fought against a sudden urge to cross his arms over himself, feeling oddly exposed under Sherlock's gaze.

He shivered with cold in the drafty flat, only his right side still feeling the warmth of the fire. Sherlock roused himself from his study of John's skin to peel the damp shirt off entirely and began towelling him down again, dumping the shirt on the floor with the rest of his discarded clothes.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

"I’m getting your circulation going again," Sherlock said, in the tone of voice that said this should be perfectly obvious and John was clearly an idiot.

John made no reply, holding himself still as Sherlock rubbed briskly at his cold arms, moving up to his shoulders and then his back. John found his eyes closing again at the sensation, as Sherlock finished on his back and moved round to his chest. At least this way he didn't have to meet Sherlock's eyes.

The movement of Sherlock's hands slowed as he massaged John's chest with the soft towel and John shivered with something other than cold as those hands moved over his nipples. Before he could get worried that his reaction would give away what Sherlock's touch was doing to him, Sherlock moved his attention to John’s legs, sinking to his knees again. John found himself thanking God for the fact that he was so cold, otherwise, there was no way Sherlock on his knees in front of him twice in quick succession wouldn’t be affecting him in a very noticeable way.

Sherlock rubbed at John’s legs quickly and efficiently, moving from his arse, to his thighs and finally down to his feet. This should have been safer territory, but John couldn’t help but worry that if he didn't get his libido under control soon, Sherlock would see just how much John was enjoying this. At the moment he wasn't sure just what Sherlock wanted from all this, but if John got a hard-on, Sherlock would hardly be able to ignore what it was that John wanted. He'd been ignoring his attraction to Sherlock for what felt like an age, but ignoring it became bloody difficult with Sherlock knelt at his feet toweling him dry.

Sherlock stood up again and paused for a moment. John was about to open his eyes and move away when Sherlock began rubbing John’s chest with the towel again, this time passing over his nipples far too often for it to be accidental. They were still hard little nubs, but now they were tight with arousal rather than cold and John felt heat coil low in his belly as he opened his eyes and realised just how close Sherlock was standing.

Their eyes met but John couldn't begin to know what Sherlock was thinking, not that he usually could. Then, Sherlock dropped the towel on the floor and brushed John's nipples lightly again, this time with the bare pads of his fingers. John gasped with surprise at the feeling of Sherlock's warm digits on his cold skin and as Sherlock rolled them between his fingers, John gave a low groan and his eyes fluttered shut once more. All thought of leaving to take a shower had left his head. John couldn't have moved had Lestrade and the whole of Scotland Yard turned up.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock let out a soft sound that might have been a sigh, his fingers tease John’s nipples once again, twisting them lightly.

“I thought you might be . . . amenable,” Sherlock said.

John couldn’t form a coherent reply and barely managed to stop himself from whining as Sherlock suddenly dipped his head to press the flat of his tongue against John’s left nipple. Sherlock licked and sucked at it, still teasing the other with his long fingers. John hadn't dreamed his nipples could be so sensitive and his cock was beginning to take an interest despite the fact that he was still a little cold.

Then Sherlock bit the over-stimulated flesh lightly and John’s cock began to register its interest with an insistent throb between his legs that made him twitch with the need to adjust himself. Sherlock's hands left the nipple it had been tugging on lightly and John hardly had time to miss the sensation before his cock was being cupped through his boxers. John couldn't help it, he pressed himself against Sherlock’s palm, swallowing against a little whimper that wanted desperately to leave his throat.

Fuck, he'd never wanted to beg like he wanted to right now. Instead he opened his eyes to see that Sherlock's gaze was focused on his crotch, his normally pale complexion flushed. Sherlock's eyes darted up to meet John's, a question clear in his expression.

"God, please. Please touch me," John said, his voice sounding high and unlike his own.

Sherlock gave John's right nipple a final cruel tug, at which a low, indistinct sound escaped John's lips. Then, both Sherlock's hands moved to the waistband of John’s boxers, his long fingers dipping underneath the material before pushing the damp cotton down John’s thighs, just low enough to give Sherlock access. Sherlock was touching him, the wonderful sensation of skin against skin causing John to shudder as Sherlock held his cock loosely in his hand. John swallowed dryly as he watched Sherlock raise a hand to his mouth. He licked it, getting it nice and wet before returning it to the shaft of John's cock. He stroked John firmly, his hand moving fast, and John knew he wasn't going to last long.

Sherlock was standing so close now, and John clung to his shoulders for support, his knees turning weak as his prick throbbed in Sherlock's hand. John imagined that those long, clever fingers were touching him exactly how Sherlock touched himself, and the thought made him groan.

Sherlock worked his cock with nimble fingers, his thumb spreading the pre-come that beaded at the head of John's cock, smearing it around as his thumb swiped the head with each pump of his hand. John turned his face blindly towards Sherlock's, desperate for a kiss, for any kind of extra contact. His lips clumsily found Sherlock's and they kissed messily, as Sherlock carried on working John's cock, his other hand moving up to John's hair. Sherlock's fingers carded through John's still damp hair, before tugging lightly at the same time as he began sucking on John's tongue. The combined sensations of the sharp tug on his scalp, Sherlock's firm grip and the filthy things he was doing with his mouth were too much for John, who gasped as he came and came and came, thrusting jerkily again and again into Sherlock's tight fist. At the end, his hands were clinging tightly to Sherlock's shoulders, keeping him upright as his body tried to slump to the floor.

"You thought I might be amenable?" John asked after a long pause, his breath finally coming back to him and a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His head had drooped down, his eyes shut and his hands still resting on Sherlock's shoulders for support, a little gap between their bodies.

"I hoped," Sherlock said, his voice sounding strained.

John shook himself and looked up. Sherlock was flushed, pale skin tinted pink from his cheeks and down his neck, and he was looking at John with a startling intensity, his eyes dark. John's eyes moved to Sherlock's throat, and he found himself taken with a sudden desire to kiss and mark Sherlock's skin, to know just how far below the collar of his shirt that flush went. He wanted to touch Sherlock,wanted to press him down into a mattress and watch him fall apart, wanted to see him pant and groan and come. But John found himself worrying that he was alone in this, that Sherlock didn't want John to reciprocate at all, that he didn't want any more than this. If it was anyone else he wouldn't have hesitated, but John never could be sure what was going on in Sherlock's head.

Without quite intending to, John's gaze flickered down to Sherlock's crotch, and his breath caught as he saw that Sherlock was silently unzipping his trousers, opening them just enough to free his prick. He was hard and leaking and Sherlock quickly wrapped hand around his long thick cock, those long clever fingers moving quickly. John groaned as he realised that Sherlock's hand was still covered in John's come. John's own hands tightened on Sherlock's shoulders as he watched Sherlock's hand moving quickly, almost frantically. Sherlock let out little panting breaths, sounding as if he was trying to hold them in and as John looked up, Sherlock didn't look away, instead holding John's gaze as his hand kept the same quick pace. Sherlock's mouth parted slightly and then he bit at his lower lip as a long huff of breath left him. John couldn't bear the look of desperation on Sherlock's face, the way he was standing in front of John and touching himself as if he was alone. He wasn't putting on a show for John's benefit, he just didn't expect John to touch him back. John pulled at Sherlock's shoulders, dragging him closer, put his hands on him and kissed him.

Sherlock groaned into John's mouth as they kissed and John gently pulled Sherlock’s lower lip between his own before sucking on his tongue. He reached down into the tight space between them and interlaced his fingers with Sherlock's, their hands now moving together on the velvety skin of Sherlock's cock and Sherlock broke free of the kiss to gasp brokenly. John reached around with his free hand and pulled Sherlock's shirt free of his trousers before slipping his hand down the back of those tailored trousers as far as he could to cup Sherlock's arse. John kissed Sherlock again, sloppy and hurried and felt the ghost of arousal tugging at him despite having come not five minutes ago.

Their tangled fingers were still moving together on Sherlock's cock and John felt Sherlock tighten his hand a little as he began to lean into John's body, breaking their kiss to pant damply against John's ear. John copied Sherlock's touch, their hands pumping more and more quickly until finally Sherlock shuddered against him, spurting wetly over their joined fingers.

"John," Sherlock gasped, the sound causing an answering shiver as Sherlock breathed into John's ear. "John, God, I-" Sherlock shuddered once more, his cock giving a final jump in John's hand before Sherlock slumped against him.

"Let's try and make it as far as a bed next time," John suggested, grinning at the fact that he was standing stark bollock naked in their living room, with a fully clothed Sherlock, both flushed and covered in come.

Sherlock laughed quietly against John's ear, before pulling back and tucking his now limp cock away and leaning down to pick up the blanket he had brought in for John. That felt like a million years ago now.

Sherlock draped the blanket around John's shoulders, and stepped back, not meeting his eyes, and both that and a certain tightness in Sherlock's expression told John just how nervous he was.

"You know, sharing body heat is actually one of the best cures for hypothermia," John said, hopefully.

"I have to --" Sherlock gestured behind himself at his abandoned experiment in the kitchen.

"Come to bed with me," John said, his voice low and insistent.

Sherlock took a long breath and took a step closer to John.

"Yes. Yes, okay. I wouldn't want you to catch a cold, John." The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up into the hint of a smile, and John grinned in return, leaning in for a kiss.


End file.
